June 25, 2009

I look up to summer—literally: all that's happening above my head. Find yourself floating in the Atlantic or in some city pool; observing clouds or blue cloudlessness; tracing cumulus outlines of Donald Duck, a seahorse, Rip Van Winkle, or that ol' standby Christ, and there's a summer-specific spaciousness to be felt.

So in this season, when the sky opens up, I'm partial to the sounds of equally spacious music—like the kind they make in Scandinavia (a region where, one can reasonably assume, skies heavily influence moods). Epic times call for epic atmosphere is what I'm thinking. Particularly: strings and echoes, sparse electronic beats, references to childhood, and a rush of wind....

FEEEEEEEL IT!

What takes place while looking at the light in a skyspace is akin to wordless thought. But this thought is not at all unthinking or without intelligence. It's just that it has a different return than words. —James Turrell

June 22, 2009

Just got back from a reunion/forever family hang in the South...in Sunset Beach, NC, in a house on the edge of the Atlantic. Sea, and unimaginably solid islands, and sea, and a hundred rolling skies. Also: boiled peanuts and sweet tea and cousin brodowns (cousindowns?) AKA good times.

Loose change holder/contraption on the dashboard of Dad's car (he has a thing for modern interior accessories). On the drive down to NC, Mom spelled things with coins.

On your mountain slope now you must take on faith that those apparently discrete dots of you were contiguous... You must take on faith that those severed places cohered—the dozens of desks, bedrooms, kitchens, yards, landscapes—if only through the motion and shed molecules of the traveler. —An American Childhood